


Domestic Bliss

by a_big_apple



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, OT3, Pregnancy, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/pseuds/a_big_apple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to keep his vow to look after John and Mary, but things don't always turn out as he plans in their post-wedding life.  </p>
<p>Three vignettes written quickly before I get jossed in the breathless, anxious week between The Sign of Three and His Last Vow.  Spoilers up to SoT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's plans are foiled by a cold.

The week of the Sex Holiday is interminable.  There are absolutely no cases worth his time to be found anywhere.  John and Mary have given him a number limit on texts, which he uses up in the first two days.  It doesn't stop him from texting, but they don't answer anymore.  Mrs. Hudson plays Cluedo with him three mornings in a row, but it grows boring quite quickly, and she's rubbish at Operation.

Sherlock's only choice is to dive into research.  He knows a fair bit about pregnancy and its early symptoms, knowledge he's put to use surprisingly often in the course of the Work, but now that he's to have personal experience with it he finds he doesn't know enough.  He spends days four and five of the Sex Holiday reading about nutrition, making meal plans, braving the shops armed with a mile-long list on his phone, being ejected sans groceries for deducing the customers queueing ahead of him, texting John and Mary ("Did you know groceries can be _delivered_?") and experimenting with recipes until the wee hours of the morning.

"Oh, it smells heavenly up here, what have you been up to now?" Mrs. Hudson asks when she brings up the morning tea.

He takes the tray and hands her a plate.  "Taste this."

She raises an eyebrow at him, but complies.  "Sherlock, this is delicious!  If I had any idea you could cook like this, I'd've stopped bringing you up leftovers years ago."

"Cooking is just applied science," Sherlock replies, composing a new delivery order on his phone.  "Of course I'm good at it."

***

Mrs. Hudson is still cleaning the kitchen and chattering about her grandmother's Yorkshire Pudding recipe when Sherlock's phone buzzes.  Gavin, at last!

"Where?"

"Eager, aren't you?" comes the reply.  "Wapping.  Body turned up in Shadwell Basin."

"Boring."

"Didn't let me finish.  One leg was flayed up to the knee, skin put back on inside out.  Like a sock."

"Which leg?"

"Right."

"Hmm."  Sherlock looks at his watch.  Just under 24 hours before John and Mary get back.  Ought to be more than enough.  "I'll meet you there."

***

It's a facile case in the end, old football rivalry, but a persistent spring rainstorm and large gaps in Sherlock's knowledge of sport make it take longer than it should.  He's soaked to the skin and exhausted when he gets back to Baker Street just after four in the morning.

_Get dry_ , John says in his head.   _Pajamas, tea, toast, sleep._  Mrs. Hudson is in bed, so there's no one to see him as he obeys, curling beneath the covers with his phone beside him on the bed, alarm set to wake him in five hours.  He'll be cutting it close, but he ought to be able to dress and cook and get the meal over to John and Mary's flat by the time they arrive.  They'll have nothing in after being away for a week, too jet-lagged to cook, and Mary shouldn't be eating unhealthy takeaways, not with her stomach so easily turned.  

He wakes instead to the bed--no, the phone--vibrating with text messages.  His throat is on fire and his eyes glued shut with discharge, his limbs heavy and sore when he flails about the bed trying to get the damn thing, and once he finds it he can barely get his eyes open to see it.  Four from John, two from Mary.  He has to stare at the time for a good thirty seconds before he understands that he's been asleep nearly ten hours.

Too late to make them a meal before they get home--clearly they're home already, if they're pestering him.  He could still cook a late dinner, if he got up now, might be better anyway, give them a chance to settle in and unpack and get out any residual Sex Holiday energy they may have.

He stumbles into the loo to give his face a good wash and is fumbling his way through slicing the tough ends off the asparagus without slicing his fingertips when the downstairs door rattles and two sets of footsteps climb the stairs to the flat.

"Sherlock?" John calls, and he and Mary appear in the kitchen doorway, looking expectedly radiant with skin tanned and hair sun-bleached.  "You didn't answer your texts."

Sherlock lays the trimmed asparagus out on the pan.  "Busy," he intends to say, but it comes out more like a croak.  He swallows, clears his throat and tries again.  "Cooking."

"Smells divine," Mary murmurs as Sherlock slides the pan into the oven.  When he turns to them, they're watching him with identical bemused expressions.  "Have you slept at all?  You look a fright."

He snorts, winces when that makes his head throb, and spins in a wobbly circle pointing to each bit of the meal-in-progress.  "Grilled pork chops, that's what you're smelling, not too heavy after a long trip but satisfies John's need for protein in his dinners, sweet potato mash, really more of an autumn thing according to the internet but good for Mary's sweet tooth without overdoing it on sugar, roasted asparagus, folate-rich, essential for the foetus in the first weeks of development, sweet corn for B6, helps with the nausea--"

"Sherlock."  John catches his wrist as he spins, halting his progress and pressing a palm to his forehead.  "You're too warm.  Come on, to bed with you."

"What?  No, didn't you hear me, dinner isn't finished--"

"You're ill, Sherlock, you shouldn't be up."

"Listen to your doctor, love, I'll finish up dinner," Mary adds with a hand on his back, and they exchange a glance that Sherlock can't quite read as John herds him toward his bedroom.

"Six more minutes on the asparagus, a minute and seventeen--no, fifteen seconds on the chops, can't cook them too long, they turn out rubbish--"

John closes the bedroom door behind them, cutting him off.  "She's got it, Sherlock.  Get in bed, I'll bring you some paracetamol."

He is rather tired still, and John is using his Doctor voice, which requires more energy to resist than Sherlock has right now.  He sits down on the bed consideringly, and it's quite soft and inviting.

John ducks into the bathroom and reappears with a glass of water and pills, which Sherlock swallows with a wince.

"Throat sore?"

He nods.  "And headache."  Sherlock doesn't realize he closed his eyes until he is surprised by John's fingers carding through his hair.

"Lie back now, that's it.  Rest.  We'll stay here tonight, all right?"

It's becoming more difficult to shake his heavy head, but Sherlock makes an effort.  "Can't give it to Mary."

"She'll stay well away from you."

John tugs the duvet up and tucks it in around his shoulders, and Sherlock's eyes refuse to open.  "Had a good time?  Plenty of sex?"

He can hear John making his _that's inappropriate Sherlock_ face.  "We had a lovely time.  Now sleep, I'll get you up in a little while for another dose."

John's warm fingers, his warm presence, slowly retreat.  

_Missed you_ , Sherlock thinks into his pillow, but he must say it out loud, because John pauses as he's closing the door.

"We missed you too."

***

Some time in the night there are more pills and water, and when he wakes again there's a gleam of early sunlight through the window and the sound of Mary emptying her stomach into the toilet.  

"More B6," he calls, though it comes out a bit garbled.  John slips through the door from the hallway with a tray in hand, and shoots him a quelling look.  

"Leave her be, she gets cranky," he murmurs.  The tray, once it's in view, contains tea, eggs and soldiers, and the thermometer from John's spare kit.  John sets it down on the bedside table, perches on the edge of the bed, and tests Sherlock's forehead again with a cool hand.

It's marvellous.  John's hand is marvellous, Mary vomiting in the next room is marvellous, eggs and soldiers on a breakfast tray is marvellous.  

Perhaps he's been speaking his thoughts aloud again, because John just shakes his head and grins, brandishing the thermometer.  "Open."

 


	2. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes dinner, Sherlock makes music, and Mary makes mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter earns the explicit rating.

It's John's night to cook, and he's promised that thing with the peas, so Sherlock packs away the pigeon carcass he picked up in Regent's Park and changes his pajamas and dressing gown for tight dark jeans and a white shirt.  It's Mary's favorite outfit of his--he'd deduced it already, but then in her usual forward way she told him his arse looked fit in the jeans, he should wear them more often and could he bend over and pick up that biro under the sofa there?

Utterly transparent.  But Sherlock cannot deny her anything, not when she rubs the little bulge of her belly and grins at him.  Nor when John chokes a little and the tips of his ears burn red.  Sherlock finds he likes that quite a lot.

So, dressed to please and bundled into his coat, he quickly hacks into John and Mary's home computer network to transfer the mp3 files he spent all day yesterday recording, then swoops out the door and into a cab.

Mary grins when she opens the door.  "Just in time!  How do you always know when the food will be done?"

"Obvious," he sniffs, handing over his coat and scarf.  

"Those jeans!" she exclaims, as she always does, but the pat on the bum she gives him is a surprise, and she laughs when he jumps.

"John!" He bellows into the kitchen.  "See to your wife, she's in need of a shagging!"

A pan clatters to the floor in the kitchen.  "Bloody buggering fuck!"

"As I said," Sherlock agrees.  Mary tilts her head and smiles.  

"Sorry.  Hormones."

"Hmm.  Perhaps we should keep a spreadsheet, the research I've read on pregnancy's effect on the female libido has been sadly lacking--"

"NO," John interrupts, stomping into the living room to lay steaming plates of food on the table.  "Shut up and eat your peas."

***

Sherlock does the washing up on these nights, because John cooked and Mary's ankles are swollen and Mrs. Hudson does his at 221B, so it only seems fair.  John and Mary are sprawled on the sofa, her feet in his lap, a glass of wine in his hand (Sherlock chose it, he always buys their wine, John is an absolute Philistine).  It's a good a time as any for the music.

He makes a playlist for the tracks on John's laptop (not even password protected anymore, which makes things faster but is a bit less fun) and hits play, pointing the speakers toward Mary's bump.

"What's this then?" John asks, sipping the wine and watching him with what Sherlock likes to think of as fond suspicion.  

"No research has yet proven that music has any particular effect on foetal development, it's an old wives' tale, but studies have shown that the more relaxed the mother, the better for both."

"Yes, we've done some reading too," John replies, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.  "And I did in fact go to medical school."

"I'm not sure how I could possibly get more relaxed," Mary sighs, kneading her feet into John's thigh.

Sherlock ignores their ungrateful responses.  "I've taken the liberty of recording a number of pieces tailored to this purpose."  He hits play, and retreats to the kitchen.  

By the time he's finished with the washing, Mary is smiling blissfully and John's got his eyes closed, but it's his violin listening face, not his sleeping face, so that's all right.  Then the track changes, and Mary's smile widens.  "Our waltz!"

"Mmm, yes.  A little bit expanded, now that no one is expected to dance to it."

"Can't have that.  Go on then, you two, let's see you dance."

John's eyes slit open to peer at his wife.  "What?"

Mary nudges him with her toes.  "Can't have a waltz playing and no dancing.  And I'm sure as hell not going to do it, I'm tired."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John, hopeful.  He really doesn't get to dance often enough.  John, with surprisingly little resistance, swallows down the last of his wine and gets to his feet.  It's simple, once the table is pushed to the side, to slot himself into John's arms and let him lead.

John's lost a little finesse in the months since the wedding, but his frame is solid and his hands are very warm, and Sherlock closes his eyes to better feel the way they sway together.  This version of the song is quite long; the longer it goes, the closer Sherlock migrates into John's pleasant heat, until they are pressed together from arm to hip.  It's so hypnotizing that Sherlock is caught entirely by surprise when the track slows to an end and John dips him low.  He's held suspended by John's strong forearm for a long moment, and when he blinks his eyes open, their faces are very, very close.  It's like a scene from a soppy romantic film, when time stills around them, and then the track changes and Mary clears her throat.

John pulls him upright again and takes a step back, but neither of them have released their clasped hands, so Sherlock just steps with him; Mary breathes a laugh, and gets to her feet.

"Well, boys, I'm for bed, I'm knackered.  But you should keep listening to this lovely music," she urges, bending over the laptop.  "And I'm just going to turn the camera on here, so you keep on doing as you're doing, and tomorrow I can watch..." she pauses, catching John's eyes, "whatever nice things you get up to.  All right?"

There's something passing between them, some _married_ communication that Sherlock can't parse, but he knows it's there by the way John tenses and then relaxes against him.  "All right, love," John murmurs, and Mary grins a bit wickedly, and adjusts the angle of the laptop until she's satisfied.  Then she comes over to wrap her arms around their waists (Mary does like to show her affection in physical ways, Sherlock is coming to like it though he would never say so), stretches up on tip-toe to kiss Sherlock's cheek, then leans in close to kiss John rather languidly on the mouth.  

It makes Sherlock's stomach flutter strangely, standing so close while they kiss, but he can't decide if he likes it or not by the time Mary pulls away and shuffles off toward the bedroom.

John, on the other hand, clearly likes it very much--his pupils are suddenly big as dinner plates, and his pulse is jumping in his neck.  "Well then," he says, and his voice is a half-step lower than usual.  "Shall we keep dancing?"

"This one's not a waltz," Sherlock points out absently, distracted the sensation of his own pulse quickening up to John's pace.

"Ah, 's all right," John breathes, and pulls him a little closer, the hand at the center of his back sliding down to his waist.

"Your form's getting sloppy," Sherlock tries to say, but it comes out a little bit more breathless than he intended; against his thigh, he can feel John's erection.

It certainly isn't the first time John's been aroused in his presence.  They lived together, men on average experience eleven erections per day, though that statistic is meant for men a bit younger than John and a bit...well, not much at all like Sherlock.  Mycroft explained, when Sherlock hit puberty, that the social convention was to refrain from pointing out or discussing the state of other males' penises, a rule which served him well at boarding school.

This is different, though.  He's not sure exactly why, so he sticks, for the moment, with the rule.  But John's so very, very warm, and watching him with his dilated pupils, and swaying them together in time to the violin.  Sherlock is quite warm now too, and it isn't until his own penis gives a little spasm of interest that he begins to understand.

"John?"

"All right?"

Sherlock considers, trying to be objective.  He loves John, of course he does.  Love has not...always included his penis, before.  But it seems rather fond of John too, if the way it presses toward him is any indication.  He lets the dance play out a little in his mind, imagines what it might feel like to rub this bulge in his jeans against John's matching one, and he sucks in a shaky breath.

"Yes.  But."

"Mary?" John asks, because John always knows what's going on in these interpersonal situations, he's very good at that.

"Yes."

John tips his head toward the laptop, the green light at the top reminding them that the camera is on.  "Whatever nice things we get up to, remember?"

Sherlock plays back that conversation.  Mary's inflections, her expression, her body language, _John's_ body language--it all reads very differently with this new data.  Always something.

"She...in the morning, she'll..."

"Watch.  If that's okay with you."

"And if we don't..."

"That's okay too."

The track has changed again.  They've stopped dancing, paused in the middle of the living room floor with John watching him closely, quietly.

Experimentally, Sherlock slides his hand from John's shoulder to the back of his neck.  John licks his lips, and Sherlock's blood goes quite suddenly south.  Is this what it's always meant, John licking his lips?  He bends his head to touch his mouth to John's, bumps their noses a bit until John tilts his head and they fit _just right_ , John's breath in his mouth when he parts his lips, tasting of the wine.  Mary will see this, when she watches the video in the morning, watch them kiss the way he watched John and Mary kiss just minutes ago, and the idea tears a groan from his chest that he wasn't at all expecting.

John's hand spasms on his waist, his other hand grasping Sherlock's as though they're still dancing, and then his tongue, his _tongue_ is touching _Sherlock's_ tongue and it's foreign and electric.  It's bizarre, kissing, moving their lips and tongues together, but it's brilliant too, and Sherlock's arse-hugging jeans are becoming unbearable.  John's hand is smoothing up and down his spine now, and Sherlock can feel the rise and fall of his chest.  When they break apart for breath, panting, John's face is flushed and his lips reddened, and Sherlock just _has_ to have a little more room.  He slips his hand out of John's, slides it experimentally down the front of John's chest before fiddling one-handed with his own flies, breathing out a sigh when he's pulled the zip down and gained a little space.  John chuckles low and kisses him again, his free hand sliding into Sherlock's hair.

That's shockingly good right now, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, and he presses forward hard against John, hard enough to knock him back a step.  John laughs again and takes his hands, stepping back until he can sprawl on the couch, leading Sherlock forward.  "Can you move in those?" he asks, even as he pulls Sherlock down onto his lap, and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure, but now discovers that he can spread his legs wide enough to straddle John's hips.  It's better, much better than he'd anticipated, when John's hands slide to his arse and pull their erections together.

"John," he chokes out, jerking involuntarily against him, and John moans softly, watching him with an avid expression.

"Christ, you're lovely," he murmurs, and Sherlock drops his forehead against John's with a shaky moan.

"I've never..."

"It's all right."

Sherlock shakes his head and bites his lip; his body is slipping out of his control, moving against John's in jerky little pushes, and John is holding him steady with strong hands, pushing back up.  "No, I mean, I won't...I won't last."

John grunts like he's been punched in the gut.  "Fuck, I want to see that, can I see that, you coming apart right here in my lap?"

"Hah...ah...you will.  Soon."  His pants are thin, to fit under the jeans, and have a growing wet spot now where the head of his penis rubs against them.  John's jeans are still buttoned and zipped, but he seems in no hurry, or perhaps in too much of a hurry, to open them.  

"God, Sherlock," John breathes, and peppers his face and his jawline with kisses, but it's the gentle nip to the pulse point in his throat that makes Sherlock gasp and rock down into John's body with sudden urgency.  

It's overwhelming, John surrounding him, his breath and his lips and his chest, and under that shirt is skin and blonde hair and nipples, and just the thought makes Sherlock moan, trembly exhalations that rise higher and higher against his will.  

"Come on, love," John breathes in his ear.  "I've got you.  'S all right, I've got you."

Desperate, erratic thrusts, and all he can focus on is John's voice and the rising buzz of sensation, more and more until it rips through him like an electric current and he's crying out against John's cheek and spilling in his pants.

John steadies him, rocks him through it, until all the little twitches of his limbs and sparks of pleasure have passed and he collapses limply forward.  "Fuck."

John giggles, high and breathless.  "Gorgeous.  Bloody gorgeous, Sherlock, just shift a little this way--" and John's hands, still rather possessively cupping his arse, move him to one side just a bit so John can thrust up against his thigh.  John's still hard, of course, and it feels shockingly good to lie there against him while he pants, rutting up against Sherlock's heat, gasping against his throat.  "Fuck, Sherlock, ah shit..."

"Do you swear like this in bed with Mary?"

All he gets is an urgent groan in response.  His neck muscles aren't working well enough to pull back and watch, though he wants to, so Sherlock satisfies his curiosity with his hand, petting down John's side and over his thigh to investigate the hardness rubbing up against him.

John whimpers, actually whimpers, and though Sherlock cannot possibly become erect again so soon, the sound draws a groan out of him anyway.  He rubs hard with the heel of his hand and explores the shape of John's penis through the fabric, deducing what he can't directly observe and memorizing John's unrestrained moans for his Mind Palace.  "John, the next time you have sex with her, will you record it for me?"

"Ah, god yeah, oh god yes!" he replies, and the denim under Sherlock's hand is quite suddenly hot and damp as John shudders and shouts.  He comes down slowly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, and it's lovely here with their wet trousers between them and John's heart beating against his.

"Is that...something you'd like?" John asks after a few minutes, and Sherlock glances over at the steady green light of the laptop camera.  

"Yes.  Definitely yes."

***

He falls asleep on the sofa still wearing all his clothes, with John sprawled on top of him.  He wakes to a sticky, partly crusty mess in his pants and John's pleasant weight replaced with a heavy crocheted blanket from John and Mary's bed.  It's late morning, judging by the sun coming in the window, and Sherlock stretches his limbs under the blanket, feeling lazy and sated and calm.  The kitchen is empty, clearly John and Mary haven't begun their day, but a brief scan of the living room reveals that the laptop is gone.

Then he hears the faint strains of a violin, followed by a tinny moan, his own voice, coming through the wall from the bedroom.

_"I've never..."_

_"It's all right."_

As he wakes up more fully, he begins to register the creaking of the bed, rhythmic, then broken by Mary's sharp cry.  "Ah, god, John!"

_"No, I mean I won't...I won't last."_

_"Fuck, I want to see that, can I see that, you coming apart right here in my lap?"_

"Yes, yes, ooooh love just like that, John--"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck--"

"I hope you're recording in there!" Sherlock calls, knocking on the wall, and Mary replies with a sharp, keening cry.  The creaking of the bedsprings and John's helpless moaning both speed up incrementally, and Sherlock grins to himself, throws off the blanket, and heads to the loo for a good long shower.

 


	3. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day before Sherlock's birthday, and he is eagerly awaiting his presents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't intending to write more sex, and then it just...happened. I guess this is how I deal with pre-episode stress.

It's dreadful, not being allowed to see his birthday present until tomorrow.  Dreadful that the cleaners have been and gone, and John was down there with Molly all morning arranging things, and Mary caught him snooping around the door and shooed him all the way upstairs to work on the nursery instead.  

221C is all his, a fully-equipped home lab with a tiny closet of a bedroom at the back in case he wants to kip down there, with a bow on the door and a tag reading "DO NOT OPEN UNTIL JAN. 6 OR ELSE!"

Instead of ripping the bow off and beginning any of the vast number of experiments he could christen the place with, he is upstairs in John's old room, putting constellations on the ceiling like bloody Michelangelo.  He's got white paint in his hair and on his fourth-best dressing gown and probably on his face too, and he keeps having to refer to the stargazing app John found him because he's SO DAMNABLY DISTRACTED.

The child will be sleeping in a crib in the master bedroom when it first comes home, anyway, he has plenty of time for all this decorating.  He gives up halfway through Orion and trudges down to the kitchen in hopes of tea.

There's no tea forthcoming, and no sign of John or Mary to make some.  He strides through to the bedroom, prepared to be very put out if they're napping while he's been so busy.  Instead, he finds them... _canoodling_ , locked at the lips with John's hand stroking Mary's breast, and Mary's fingers slipping down the back of John's jeans.

Sherlock stands there for a moment, waiting to be noticed, while John's thumb circles on Mary's breast, searching vainly for her nipple through shirt and "super-support" bra.  "I've finished Orion," he offers, and Mary breaks the kiss to take a breath.  

"Fibbing."  Her hand disappears further down John's trousers.  "You just watching today?"

He considers.  "I was hoping for tea."

John snorts, then gives a surprised hum and rubs his erection against Mary's enormous belly as she delves deeper, her forearm flexing when she wriggles her fingers.

"You are both obscene," Sherlock sneers, but he's already stripping off his paint-spattered dressing gown and shimmying out of his pajamas.  

"Skin today, lovely!" Mary coos, and John twists his head to look.

"Brilliant idea," he murmurs, and pulls away enough to tug his shirt up over his head.  Sherlock climbs into bed behind him, pressing his palm to the entry wound scar in John's shoulder, delighted as always by its textures.  It's much smaller than the gnarled exit wound on John's front, circular and ringed by ridges of scar tissue like the petals around a flower.  Sherlock fits the ring into the very center of his palm, pressing gently to feel it tickle against his skin.  When he looks up from this careful tactile study, Mary is already naked and John is trying not to jostle Sherlock as he wriggles out of his trousers and pants.

Sherlock slouches back against the headboard to give him room, tracing his trapezius muscle down to the latissimus dorsi as he moves, and watching Mary rub circles over her stomach.

"Moving about in there?" Sherlock asks, trying to spot where the baby's limbs press outward.

"Mmm," she replies vaguely, one hand sliding down between her legs instead.  It's a bit of a reach for her now, but her fingertips come away glistening and she licks them while John tugs off his socks.  

They're all naked, _finally_ , and Sherlock wraps his arms around John's waist to drag him back against his chest.  He fits just perfectly there, his compact little doctor, and Sherlock can nestle his lazily hardening penis into the small of John's back.  

John sighs and sprawls back against him, swiping his warm hands along Sherlock's thighs.  Mary shakes her head at them, grinning.  "Going to make me do all the work then, are you?"

"You're the one who said you wanted a ride not fifteen minutes ago, if you remember, so hop on."

"You're such a man sometimes," Mary sighs, but shimmies closer on her knees and leans over for a kiss.  Sherlock takes the opportunity to spread his fingers wide over the sides of her belly, circling until he feels a kick against his palm.  Mary groans into John's mouth, and John's hands tighten on Sherlock's thighs.  It's like a circuit, energy flowing between them, and they all three submit to the lazy pace.  

Soon enough, though, Sherlock's erection is starting to get uncomfortably hard, and he can tell by John's fidgeting that he's in a similar state.  Mary takes pity on him, pushing John back against Sherlock's chest again and spreading her thighs across his lap with a sigh.  "A little help, loves."

John holds out his hands for her to get some leverage with, and Sherlock closes his fingers gently around John's penis to keep it still.  He tucks his chin over John's shoulder to watch as she slides down onto it, his fingers trapped for a moment between the soft skin of John's genitals and the wet folds of hers.  He offers his fingers to John after he pulls them away, and John sucks hard on them as Mary wriggles and shifts and hums in pleasure, finding just the right position.  

Sherlock takes her hands now, John's arms always go trembly once he's got inside her and it takes a little boost to get her, and her belly, up a few inches so she can drop down again.  She moans when she does, and John curses softly, and it's all so lovely that Sherlock just has to rub his erection up against John's skin.

Once Mary's got a rhythm going, some momentum, she shifts to grip John's shoulders instead, and Sherlock wraps his arms around John's chest, thrusting up harder and making lines of slick pre-ejacuate along the base of his spine.

"Fuck, this is good, we should remember this position," John groans, tipping his head back and twisting a little to kiss Sherlock's chin and then his mouth.  Mary laughs breathlessly.

"I can't get close enough to kiss either of you.  But I suppose I won't always be the size of a house."

"Mmm, love, I can make up for it."  John's hands slide up to cup her breasts, much larger now than they used to be, and she gasps and presses into the touch.

"Ah, that's good, gently with those..."

Sherlock tucks his face into the side of John's neck, breathing him in as his pleasure rises and listening to Mary's little cries and John's deeper groaning.  It's like a symphony, a symphony that vibrates straight down to his penis and the tightening testicles beneath, until Mary gasps more sharply.

"Too much now, love, let them be."  John obeys immediately, supporting her belly instead as she bounces.

"Better?"

"Yes, yes, lovely, ah...I'm nearly..."

John rocks up into her with more vigour, and then she's crying out, but it's not the same as her range of orgasm noises, it's sharper, almost pained...

Sherlock presses his hands to her belly alongside Johns, feeling it tense and harden under his fingers, and John wrenches his head up to look at her.  "Mary, that's--"

"Yes, I know, don't stop, don't stop."

"You know!  Why didn't you tell me your labour had started?" he snaps, and Mary throws her head back and moans.

"God, I've got hours yet, they're still, still--"

"Seventeen minutes," Sherlock supplies helpfully, still cataloguing the way her whole belly changes as the contraction releases.

"--seventeen minutes apart, for god's sake DON'T FUCKING STOP."

"You're bastards, the both of you," John bites out, thrusting up harder, and Mary gives a yell, her limbs beginning to spasm.

"That's it, yeah, _fuck_!"  She rocks her hips in frenetic circles, eyes closed and mouth wide open, and John pauses, watching her carefully until the shudders and writhing stop.

"How long?"

Mary looks at him with half-lidded eyes.  "How long do they last, or how long have they been coming?"

"Both."

"Approximately twenty seconds," Sherlock supplies, and John collapses back against him with a huff.

"A few hours," Mary adds.  "I was trying to avoid you panicking."

"I'm not panicking!"

"John," Sherlock murmurs, and lays his hand on John's chest.  

"Fucking hell," John sighs, and Mary chuckles as she swings herself up and off him.

"I need a shower before I have doctors who aren't you poking about down there," she says, getting to her feet.  "You boys finish up here, all right?"

"Will you be okay by yourself?" John asks, clearly torn, and Mary pats her belly.

"I've got seventeen minutes."  She waddles through the bathroom door, leaving it open behind her, and they watch as she turns on the shower and steps carefully in.

"Fuck," John says, and Sherlock tries kissing his ear to see if that will help.

"No panicking," he murmurs, and John huffs a laugh, pressing back against him.  He's still hard in spite of the interruption, so Sherlock wraps a hand around him again, slick now with Mary's fluids.  John grunts in surprise and arches into the touch, and the sound goes straight to Sherlock's groin.

"Think you can come in seventeen--no, fifteen minutes?" he asks in John's ear, and John covers Sherlock's hand lightly with his own.

"I think I can probably come in fifteen seconds if you keep talking in my ear like that," he gasps, and together they stroke him, squeezing just a little, the way he likes best.

"John," he says, pitched low, "you're going to be a father."

John giggles, high and a little wild.  "That's not actually very sexy.  And so are you.  Except I think you'll be Father, I fancy Daddy for myself."

"Don't be ridiculous, John, I am not biologically related to your child."  But then John's other hand is reaching back to tug lightly on Sherlock's hair, and they both groan, and Sherlock is coming quite suddenly against John's back.

" _Oh_ ," he cries into John's neck, rolling his hips jerkily through it, and John's hand tightens over his, speeding up the pace on his cock.

"Fuck, Sherlock, the sounds you make, _fuck_!"  he shouts, thrusting up into their hands and spilling hot and fast over his own stomach.  

Sherlock pulls him closer as his breathing and his heartbeat slow, wrapping his legs and arms around him.  "The baby can call me Uncle Sherlock."

John giggles again, more softly.  "Whatever the baby calls you, we're all becoming parents today."

"More likely tomorrow," Sherlock says, glancing at the bedside clock.  

Grinning, John twists to peck him on the mouth.  "Happy birthday to you!"

Sherlock can't help but grin back.  "Indeed."

"Are you boys all done now?" Mary calls from the shower, and John sits up.

"Yes, yes."

"Good, because I think my waters've just broken."

John ducks his head, letting out a whoosh of breath, and Sherlock pats his back.  "You go get Mary and rinse yourself off.  I'll find all our clothes."

"Right."  John breathes deeply again.  "Right."

"John!"

"Just coming, love," he calls, and hurries into the bathroom.  He's quite a sight, with his own ejaculate on his stomach and Sherlock's sliding down the small of his back, and Sherlock can't help but laugh.

_Oh...what a night._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be an epilogue about the newest Watson, after I've seen His Last Vow. It all depends on how devastated I am and in what ways this fic is jossed. *GIANT HUGS FOR THE WHOLE FANDOM* Hope we all survive tomorrow!


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